


Sweet Lemons

by Shachaai



Series: APH Olympics [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 17:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20011957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Spain’s excuse for showing up is that the shower in his apartment is broken - again -; can he borrow Belgium’s? It doesn’t explain the presence of Romano, two unidentifiable bottles in his arms and lurking rather sulkily to the side of the doorway which Spain has leant himself into like an earnest towel-bearing sunbeam, but Romano’sfor the love of sweet Maria, pleaselethim; he stinks, is convincing enough Belgium doesn’t need to hear any more, letting both inside her little temporary Rio home.





	Sweet Lemons

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr. This (including the notes) was originally written at the time of the 2016 Olympics in Brazil.
> 
> (Mild) NSFW Spain/Belgium/Romano. Another (nominal) Olympics fic, although the ‘plot’ can basically be summed up with ‘half-naked Spain and alcohol makes things happen.’  
> The Rio Olympics Village has been plagued with… building difficulties, among the least of which are temperamental showers and athletes having to assemble their own showers and shower curtains, which is what is referenced here.  
> The last time I checked, Italy had 8 more medals than Belgium and Spain combined, which is why Romano is so pleased (at times) in this.

Spain’s excuse for showing up is that the shower in his apartment is broken - _again_ -; can he borrow Belgium’s? It doesn’t explain the presence of Romano, two unidentifiable bottles in his arms and lurking rather sulkily to the side of the doorway which Spain has leant himself into like an earnest towel-bearing sunbeam, but Romano’s _for the love of sweet Maria, please_ let _him; he_ stinks, is convincing enough Belgium doesn’t need to hear any more, letting both inside her little temporary Rio home.

Spain immediately disappears into the bathroom with a sweet _gracias, bella_ and a kiss on the cheek. Romano’s call after him - _don’t bust her shower curtain, bastard; I’ve mended enough shower curtains these past few weeks to last me until next_ century - is less sweet, but he gruffly finds his manners when he switches his gaze back to Belgium, offering her his bottles after she closes her apartment’s door.

“These are my apologies for _him_ , and the tomato idiot thought we could celebrate our teams’ successes so far.” Romano puffs up a bit, preening as Belgium begins to smile. “Of course, _some_ of us are doing better than bathroom-stealing _idioti_.”

The bottles are white wine - torrontés, Brazilian, sweet to smell but dry to taste - and a quarter-drunk limoncello. Either is a good celebration on its own, even drunk out of the generic white ceramic mugs provided in Belgium’s little kitchen, but both and company make a little party, Belgium settling herself back in her seat on her sofa with limoncello and a much happier smile than before, Romano taking one of her beanbags and somehow managing to make his pose there with his drink look like something out of a magazine photoshoot.

They talk family, sports and accommodation whilst they wait for Spain to join them, working their way through the limoncello. Really, limoncello is only supposed to be drunk as a sweet _apétirif_ , but Romano and Belgium drink the rest of the bottle like it’s an introduction to the torrontés, both of them relaxing in their seats as the warmth of the alcohol hits their blood. They pass the bottle back and forth between them as Belgium toes off her shoes, bringing her legs up underneath her on the sofa, as Romano’s lazy smile and limbs spread out over the beanbag and floor like something melting in the light.

“Oh, you drank it all.” Spain emerges from the bathroom at _least_ half an hour later, wearing nothing but his towel low on his hips and the beads of water still sliding down his skin. His usual sunny expression melts into a pout when he pads close enough to see the empty limoncello bottle that Belgium has set aside on her coffee table - he bends to pick it up anyway, droplets of water gathering ponderously on the end of his dark curls before they drip off all of a sudden to patter on the glass tabletop.

“That’s what you get for taking so fucking long in the bathroom, bastard. What if either of us had wanted to take a piss?” Now sprawled out in his beanbag, tipsy and content and flushed in the throat, Romano lets his head loll to the side to regard Spain. His hair’s the kind of _elegant_ mussed look that makes Belgium’s cut just feel _sticky_ where sweat has it clinging to her nape. Romano can’t quite manage a sneer, too satisfied like someone has hooked up the corner of his mouth with a sticky thumb, but he stretches out one leg further in Spain’s direction, a jab at the air. “You’re making a mess.”

The empty bottle _clicks_ on glass again, going down.

“Was it good?” Spain asks, somehow sounding both curious and forlorn. He has to step over Romano’s ankle to get to the sofa, his knee on the seat beside Belgium and his damp, shower-warm body bringing over a wave of humid, strawberry-scented air. (He’d used her shower gel?!)

Even in shorts, Belgium can feel herself flush at the extra warmth, Spain throwing off all the reflected heat of the stones in Madrid. The Rio temperatures in winter are actually about the same and slightly _lower_ than much of her own country at the moment - but they _feel_ warmer, especially in the direct sunlight and in packed, excited crowds, and especially because so much of Western Europe is so _windy_ right now. “Yes.”

“Let me try some,” Spain murmurs, something appealing, leaning in close like he means to take Belgium’s empty mug from her hands.

“But,” says Belgium, meaning to finish with _there is nothing left_ , but Spain’s hand settles on her cheek instead, tipping up her face with his long, warm fingers and leaning in enough to kiss her.

Even the shower cannot make Spain’s hands softer than his mouth, parted lips against parted lips and catching Belgium’s startled exhale with the slow, inquisitive swipe of his tongue. Belgium can only taste the sweetness of alcohol and lemons again, now, in contrast to the rich flavour of _Spain,_ his kiss a heady distraction that opens and steals from Belgium _utterly,_ sliding away in increments like the heat of noon _._

Spain is still licking his lips with the taste of Belgium as he pulls back from her, his thoughtful hum coaxing her to open her eyes to the sight of him pulling his plump lower lip between his teeth.

“Esto _es_ bueno.” Spain’s smile always grows like a sleepy young cat’s does, a natural, unconscious thing, the slow growth of Spanish agriculture, grapes and tomatoes ripening and blushing with colour under the sun. He leans back in again to brush it against Belgium’s mouth, his drying curls swiping damply across her cheeks and forehead - but Belgium stops him with her own pleased-embarrassed smile, two fingers against Spain’s lips. “Hm?” Belgium pushes lightly, turns Spain’s head towards their third companion: Romano, sprawled out in his beanbag watching them, pink and agape. “Oh! Roma looks left out. Did you want to try?”

Romano splutters - _“What kind of_ pervert-?!” - and his feet flail until the soles land flat and angry on the floor.

“I think he’s had enough limoncello,” Spain confides, laughing and bumping his head against Belgium’s, cheek to her temple, even as his smile is still fixed on Romano. Belgium sets her mug aside. “There is so _much_ in his house.”

“The problem is not the _limoncello-!”_

Spain kisses Belgium again, cheerfully ignoring all of Romano’s indignant noises and clambering into Belgium’s lap, his knees spread either side of her waist on the cushions. He is so warm, a little heavy, and still damp enough that he sticks across Belgium’s legs and down her front, one hand curling around her nape as the fingers of the other stroke through her blonde hair. The knot-tuck of his towel, with all his movement, has begun to work itself loose, fluffy material barely clinging to the sharper bones of his hips and lusher curves of his thighs.

“You’re teasing.” Belgium remonstrates her new lap-pet, a murmur between the slick kisses Spain opens at her mouth, languid lemon-sweetness and the sun-bright flash of his teeth.

Spain laughs in his throat and in his dusty green eyes, murmuring back: “You don’t want to?”

Romano comes for kisses eventually. More accurately, Romano rises and comes closer to snap that both of them have _no shame_ when Spain’s towel eventually resigns itself to the laws of gravity and hits the floor with a very wet _thump_. Spain is too busy working on pulling off Belgium’s shirt between kisses to care, but he looks up when Romano comes within arm’s length, reaching out pulling Romano and his _yelp_ down by the throat.

Romano _bites_. Belgium can feel it when he does, watching the gorgeous swirl of arousal-fury- _heat_ flash across the face of the southern Italian’s face, hearing Spain’s startled noise and feeling the way Spain jerks in shock in her lap and grinds his half-hard cock into Belgium’s stomach.

 _“Roma,”_ Spain implores, when they both part with a gasp of breath. Belgium can’t tell if it’s starstruck or exasperated (or both), sliding her hands over the planes of Spain’s chest.

 _“That’s_ what you get, bastardo,” Romano grumbles back - but he sounds too quiet, breathy, to be truly angry, and his heat, when his attention slides to Belgium again, is not a scalding thing. His gaze skims appreciatively over the sight of her breasts cupped in their lacy white bra, the arousal swirling in his eyes like dark coffee mixed with cream. _“Bellissima.”_

Pleased, Belgium can feel herself blush and smile, Romano going a little pinker himself at her reaction. “I’m also enjoying the view.”

“I’d enjoy it more if I was not the only one naked,” Spain pipes up between them, and settles his hands over Belgium’s breasts to begin plucking futilely at the straps of her bra. He has _never_ been very good at removing her underwear, whatever the century, much preferring Belgium to remove it herself.

“Nobody _asked_ you,” snaps Romano, and places his hands on Spain’s shoulders to suddenly shove Spain sideways in a surprised flail of limbs.

Spain hits the floor with a _much_ louder _thump_ than his towel, one of his feet still hooked around Belgium’s knee.

Belgium pushes that off her lap as well ( _“et_ tu, _Bélgica?!”_ ), right as Romano offers her his hand, blushing pink and palm upraised, as though he were asking her to dance. (He has always been the most suave with those he doesn’t know. Familiarity makes him embarrassed, but the embarrassment is still so charming, and very sweet.) “To bed?”

Belgium smiles further, and takes his hand.


End file.
